Riding through the Nihonbashi merchant quarter, past buildings repaired, under construction, or still in ruins, Sano and Marume encountered news-sellers hawking broadsheets filled with stories of brawls between gangs from rival villages, who’d come to Edo since the tsunami. Business flourished in moneylending shops; the merchants raked in strings of coins and drove borrowers into debt. A refugee couple tried to sell Sano their daughter, a common practice these days. Canals were jammed with boats waiting to unload at the fish market. People made desperate by food shortages clamored to buy directly from the boats. Sano felt the fragile city bursting its seams, nearing the limits of how many people it could hold. Along the river were new warehouses from which supplies went out as fast as they came in. New docks accommodated barges, houseboats, and ferries. Ahead Sano saw the Ryōgoku Bridge, the site of one of the earthquake’s worst disasters.
People trying to escape the wreckage and fires in the city had jammed the bridge, which had collapsed under their weight. Hundreds of people had drowned in the Sumida River, which had been heated almost to a boil by debris from burning warehouses. Where the bridge had collapsed, now tall wooden supports rose, reinforced by crossed beams. Three new spans arched high above the river, reaching toward Honjo district on the opposite bank. Chattering crowds flocked along the path, on a pier, and around the massive stone base where the bridge originated. Fishermen stood in boats gathered beneath the bridge’s last span, gazing down at the water.
“What happened?” Sano called as he and Marume dismounted on the path.
“They just put up another section of the bridge,” an old peasant man said. “It collapsed. Five men died. They’re looking for the other.”
“Accidents are too common these days,” Marume said. “How many men have been injured or killed?”
“Hundreds. I’ve lost count,” Sano said. “With the push to restore the city, the engineers and workers are taking shortcuts and sacrificing safety. Not just in town, but at the castle.”
Marume nodded. “I wonder how solid some of those new walls and towers are.”
Splashes came from the water near the boats as divers surfaced. They cried, “He’s pinned under the pilings! We can’t move them-they’re too heavy!”
At least an hour must have passed since the accident. Sano doubted that the lost worker could still be alive. Marume nudged Sano and said, “Look at what the wind just blew in.”
Hirata jostled his way along the pier. Sano stared, surprised to see his chief retainer after five months. Hirata looked like a tramp with his shaggy hair and beard. At the end of the pier, he dropped his swords. He dove into the river and disappeared. The water under the bridge roiled. Sano, Marume, and the crowd watched in hushed anticipation.
“How can he hold his breath for so long?” Marume muttered.
Hirata broke the surface, gasping for air. He held the inert body of a man. The crowd cheered. The divers looked dumbfounded. Fishermen hauled the man into a boat. They pounded his chest, tried to push water out of his lungs. Giving up, they shook their heads.
Moans of disappointment rose from the crowd. Hirata swam to the pier. People in the crowd pulled him up, handed him his swords, and patted his back as he staggered to the riverbank. Obviously upset because he’d failed to save the injured man, he headed straight to Sano and Marume as if he’d known all along that they were there.
“Where have you been?” Marume demanded.
Sano knew Marume was angry with Hirata for his absence. When Marume looked at Hirata, he didn’t see an old friend; he saw the fellow samurai who’d deserted their master.
Panting from exertion, Hirata slicked water off his face with his hand. His gaze, filled with shame and anguish, met Sano’s.
“Do you think you can just stroll into town and expect Sano-san to take you back as if nothing had happened?” Marume said, infuriated because Hirata was ignoring him.
“I owe you an explanation,” Hirata said to Sano.
Sano studied Hirata with distrust, wondering if Hirata meant to tell the truth or fabricate an excuse.
“This ought to be good,” Marume said.
“Can I talk to you alone?” Hirata asked Sano.
“All right.” Sano wanted to give Hirata a chance to regain his trust. Maybe Hirata had a valid reason for desertion. Maybe the bond between retainer and master could be repaired.
Marume shook his head in disapproval. Leaving him, Sano and Hirata walked along the river. They stood side by side on the stone embankment, gazing across the water.
“I’m listening,” Sano said.
Hirata described how Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano, his teacher’s other disciples, had lured him into their secret society. He told Sano about the demonstration Tahara had performed, that had convinced Hirata to join, that had caused the death of Yanagisawa’s son Yoritomo.
Sano turned to gape at Hirata, incredulous. “They killed Yoritomo? By doing such a little thing?”
“You don’t believe me.” Hirata’s expression was both defensive and mournful.
Sano decided Hirata wasn’t lying. Hirata was a terrible liar; he could withhold information, as he’d done for so long, but he couldn’t hide dishonesty. Hirata believed what he was saying. Sano faced the river again, thinking back to that awful scene fifteen months ago, when his investigation of a scandalous murder had led to Yoritomo’s death. It had seemed straightforward at the time. Events had spun out of everyone’s control. Fate had taken its own, inexplicable course.
Or had it?
Sano remembered an uneasy feeling he’d had since then-a suspicion that there was more going on than he could see, hear, or logically deduce. He knew that the mystic martial artists of legend could command supernatural forces. Why not modern-day ones? Sano let himself consider the possibility that Hirata’s friends had somehow caused Yoritomo’s death. If they had, then Sano wasn’t to blame. He could stop feeling guilty.
“Go on,” Sano said.
Hirata told about a magic spell book, a ritual, and a ghost warrior who’d appeared to him in a trance and burned a message onto his arm. He described how the message had vanished after he’d done its bidding.
Rage thunderstruck Sano. “You set Masahiro up?” At the time Sano had thought there was something strange about a run-in that Masahiro had had with Lord Ienobu. Hirata had pulled the strings behind the scenes. “You put my son in danger!”
“I didn’t mean to,” Hirata said, defensive but contrite. “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
Reining in his temper, Sano said, “Tell me more about this ghost warrior.”
“My friends say he’s the spirit of a warlord who was killed during the Battle of Sekigahara.”
Sano knew that the veil between the human world and the spirit realm was thin. He’d once met a ghost himself. “Tell me more about these friends of yours.”
“Tahara is a retainer to the daimyo of Iga Province. He does security work for the government. Kitano is a soldier in Lord Satake’s army. Deguchi is a Buddhist priest in the Zōjō Temple district.”
“And the ghost died heroically on the battlefield. They’re all fine, upstanding citizens. What else?”
Hirata pressed his trembling lips together. His eyes contained an anguish so black that they seemed to drain light from the day. Sano had seen that look on men on their way to the execution ground. “They murdered Ozuno. They stole the magic spell book. The ghost fought against Tokugawa Ieyasu and lost. He wants to avenge his death by destroying the Tokugawa regime. He enlisted Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi to help him, because he’s just disembodied energy and he can’t act by himself. They enlisted me.” Hirata gulped, as if the words he had to say nauseated him. “Destroying the regime is the purpose of our society.”
Here, at last, was the reason for Hirata’s secrecy, the nature of his trouble. Sano’s outrage was so powerful it exploded. “You involved yourself in a treasonous conspiracy!” Grabbing Hirata by the shoulders, Sano shouted, “What were you thinking?”